


The Heart and Stomach of a Kingslayer

by Aishiterusan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Childbirth, Eventual BAMF Sansa, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Jaime remains a loser, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-02-08 16:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18627406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aishiterusan/pseuds/Aishiterusan
Summary: “You may never love my brother, but you will love his children and you will make sure they want for nothing. ‘Worse the wailing, better the babe,’ I’ve heard the midwives say. Did your mother ever tell you of labor pains? No matter the tragedy you’ve yet experienced, I assure you that birthing your firstborn will be the most exquisite agony anyone has ever set upon you. And if what the midwives say holds true, I know you shall be in a great deal of pain on your childbed. Jaime has greatness in him. I know he does. And he will pass that greatness down to his children, which may very well rip you apart, my little dove.”





	1. A Song for the Queenmaker

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an AU where Jaime doesn't lose his hand and actually ends up arriving in King's Landing much earlier. Bad luck for him, though, since his dad wants to play matchmaker. Sansa is to be married to the Kingslayer instead of the imp now. Also, Brienne's here so yay!

**A Song for the Queenmaker**

 

**Jaime**

 

He supposed she looked something like a water nymph rising from her watery abode. Golden hair clinging to her frame as she shambled to her clothes. A swift wind swayed through the wood and brushed up against her. He felt her hair rise at the crisp air as he palmed the back of her neck.

Thumb strumming at her spine, he leans forward. Her hair still smells of packed lavender and hayseed… and him.

 

“Where are you off to now?” his lips brush against her ear as his other hand drifts down her stomach.

 

“Back to camp.” She remains passive to his advances, stepping into her linens. “And you, back to your Kingsguard.”

 

He stalls the ascension of her shift at her hips, working over the soft flesh of her thighs with his calloused fingers. She bends into him, a familiar motion. Ass pressed against his groin as he slowly builds himself up.

 

“Why don’t we just stay here a bit longer. The two of us…” his fingers begin to burrow between her thighs with deft precision. “Let’s stay. Make another child,” it’s a quieter now, his lips pressed against her nape. “I’ll give you another son… or might a daughter be better? It won’t be long before Myrcella’s of age to wed. Then you’ll—”

 

She snaps in his arms breaking from him in a quick jerk. “Don’t speak to me about such things.” She clothes herself in an angry haste. “She’s barely more than a child. I will not suffer to see her treated like chattel.”

 

Jaime stands back from her, mouth drawn into a line. Where once she had found him clever she now found him grating, he thought. Always finding himself at the iron end of her ire. It would appear she was quite sick of humoring him.

 

Still, he couldn’t very well blame her for being rather ill-tempered as of late. Jon Arryn had done the brunt of it, sowing seeds of hysteria in her coiled, cunning mind. Now all she could do was worry and peep over her shoulder frantically. The Stark boy hadn’t helped.

 

He had thought that all this worrying business was done with, though, when she had approached him for an early morning tryst. Here, in the Forest of Fleece, as the locals liked to call it, they consummated their love once more under the rising sun.

 

If he could have her every day, he would and he had told her as much 1,000 times over already. There was no truer union than this.

 

Jaime smiles at his sister, now almost dressed, though sloppily. He steps forward to help her with her lacing.

 

She smacks his hands away. “Don’t touch me,” she commands in her most queenly cadence.

 

He laughs, unaffected. “I’m not trying to undress you, dear sister. I’m trying to help.” She yields to his touch. “Not even the most vehement praying undoes one’s back-lacing.”

 

She had told them all that she wished to seclude herself in the old wood so to pray for the Stark boy’s life. Jaime, of course, had eyes enough to follow her. Jaime concocted a lie for himself as well, one he used oft enough for it to be almost truthful. He was to go out scouting Inns and clearing the way for the rest of the party.

 

“I know Robert’s planning to marry Myrcella off to the eldest Stark boy. He’d do it just to spite me.” She turns to him now, a sharp sadness in her eyes. “You mustn’t allow it.”

 

He finishes with the backside of her dress and steps away. “I think Myrcella likes the boy well enough. And he’d be a fool to refuse her affections. Anyone would be.”

 

Cersei groans. It’s an unpleasant sound both to hear and to make Jaime imagines. He knows she is undoubtedly frustrated with him now.

 

“She’s only a silly little girl. She knows nothing of what marriage means or what it takes away.”

 

“No one is talking about marriage. Not yet. Merely a betrothal. Surely, you can consent to that.” He looks to her, hoping these words are enough to undo the damage he’s done. Bringing up the subject of Cersei’s children was a mistake. “Myrcella will not be wed for a long, long time, I assure you.”

 

He watches her pace, still frustrated but less so at him than at her husband. She truly hates the drunk fool. **_And for what?_ ** He wonders. **_His love of a long-dead Stark?_ **

 

“The idea of her rotting in a place like this sickens me. I—” Cersei stops herself, stilling like chilled stone. Jaime stares at her, baffled by her sudden change before he hears it too. The soft singing.

 

It’s as light and wispy as a reed, carried liked petals over the wind.

 

_“Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool,_

 

_Washing themselves so clean and cool…”_

 

“It’s the girl!” Cersei rasps out, features frayed like a frightened wood witch.

 

Jaime bounds to his armor piled by the pool. His eyes flit to his glinting sword, but his hand moves to his trousers. He takes up his clothing and quickly dresses.

 

Looking up from his work, he sees Cersei standing still as stone. She appears arrested with fear.

 

“Go, quickly!” Jaime ushers, spurring her to action. “Now!”

 

This is enough to move her, as she takes up her skirts and begins her rushed journey back to camp. Jaime only starts toward the singing once Cersei’s gone.

 

It’s farther away than it had been when they first heard it. Jaime slowly makes his way through the brush and wood, following the sweet tune. It’s an ambling walk, half-hidden half-curious.

 

Eventually, he makes it to the edge of the wood. There, on the lush, green bank by the languid stream, sits the Stark girl dreamily singing to herself.

 

**Sansa**

 

_“...And to her will, her father did bend_

 

_So to bring her broken heart to mend_

 

_And such is the tale of Jonquil and Florian…”_

 

Lady paws meekly at the folds of Sansa’s skirts, craving Sansa’s fullest attention. The wolf cub nuzzles its head deep into Sansa’s lap. Smiling, Sansa opens her mouth to begin a reprisal but is stopped by the sound of a man’s voice.

 

“I never knew the song to end like that.”

 

Lady starts in her lap, instantly on her feet with ears pricked toward the unfamiliar man. Sansa recognizes him, though. She hadn’t seen him without his armor, but she knew him well enough. A lady of the court must be able to recall both faces and names with ease, Septa Mordane had said.

 

“Good morning, Ser Jaime,” she greets him as prettily as a songbird. She moves a tender hand over Lady’s neck and back to calm her before rising herself.

 

He’s quite away from the dark of the wood now, stepping closer to her with a grin. He always seemed to smile about something, didn’t he? She thought it strange for a Kingslayer to be so devoid of weight.

 

“That song, _Six Maids in a Pool,_ I believe. I never knew it to end like that.” He stands before her now. He looked as she had always thought Lannisters to look. Proud and golden with cutting smiles. “Do you like to sing?”

 

“Yes, ser, though I forgot the ending to Six Maids in a Pool, so I made the rest up,” she says. “Still, I know many other songs.”

 

“Clever girl. I should like to hear you sing for me some time.” She keeps her eyes on his face as he speaks, averting them from his state of undress. “Truth be told, I heard your voice while I was bathing in a little pool in the wood.”

 

Red seeps into her cheeks. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Ser Jaime. It was not my intention.” She had thought she had heard bristled whispers as she made her way down the path and to the stream.

 

“No, it’s fine my lady.” His eyes then narrow on her and Sansa feels her chest tighten. “But you should not be out alone in these woods. Wolves roam the Forest of Fleece, do they not. It’d be rather dreadful if one mistook you for a sheep, now wouldn’t it?”

 

 **_It is not wolves I fear._ **Sansa nods her head silently, a bit flustered and unsure how to respond. Septa Mordane had always warned her about being caught alone with a man. But Ser Jaime was a Kingsguard, a knight and probably one of the handsomest she ever saw. He was honorable.

 

He grins down at her, eyes twitching with light. Almost trustworthy. “Please, my lady, allow me to escort you back to camp.”

 

**Jaime**

 

He watched her as he dressed himself in armor. She was a pretty little thing and her sweetness reminded him of Myrcella and, mayhaps, even a bit of Cersei as well. He wondered if Cersei had ever been so innocently beautiful. Cersei, even when they were young, had always had an edge to her beauty, like the glinting tip of a sword.

 

Cersei had been sweet, or had at least appeared so at one time. Untainted by their father’s heavy hand and the disappointments of this world. Aye, she had been sweet but never so thoughtlessly as Sansa or Myrcella.

 

How easy it would be to shove her thick, copper head under the water and drown his secrets with her. She was so mesmerized by the reflection pool and embarrassed by the sight of a man putting on mail that she wouldn’t even have the time to take notice.

 

If he thought she knew more than what he had been told her, he would have done it already. She’s as absent-minded as she seems, though. No doubt she could stumble onto the truth as surely as her younger brother could, but she was not a girl to make assumptions. Not about her future family, at least.

 

Finally dressed, he steps to her. “It’s rather refreshing if you’d like to take your chances in the water.”

 

She knocks her head back as if surprised to hear him speak. Again, a blush bleeds into her cheeks. “Oh, no, I couldn’t, ser. I—”

 

“Only an offer, my lady. You wouldn’t have to fear for privacy. I’d stand guard out your sight and make sure no one approaches. You could swim at your leisure.”

 

Her eyes drift back to the dreamy pool with glinting light and clear reflections. She’s considering… but decides against with a sigh. “My Septa wishes only to bathe me herself and by a hearth. She says cool water is not good for the health.”

 

Jaime chuckles, mail jingling in agreement. “I must disagree, my lady, but it is as you wish. Let me escort you back to camp then.”

 

She rides with him back to camp like he once rode with Myrcella. She sits in front of him, leaning back against him with both legs swept to one side. He uses one hand to rein and the other to support her.

 

The Direwolf trails behind them, loping with the grace of its namesake.

 

Arriving at camp, he hands her off to one of her father’s men, one the girl seems to eagerly recognize. His eyes soon find Cersei’s and they exchange their glances.

 

“Tell Lord Stark he had best keep a better eye on his daughters, lest they are eaten up by the wolves his house is so fond of.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Tyrion**

 

“I swore as Hand of the King in open court that I shall return the Stark girls to their mother if Jaime was returned to us.” Tyrion feels his father’s eyes looking through him.

 

“Well, there is a new Hand of the King, now.” He speaks with the same precision he had when he was mobilizing troops.

 

 **_The Lannisters are no more a family than an army to him,_ **Tyrion thinks bitterly.

 

Jaime stands, making Tyrion’s gaze flit to him instead. “Father, it would be the honorable thing to do—”

 

“When is it _you_ have started to care about honor,” Tywin spits back like the venomous old snake he is. “In any case, I have other plans for the Stark girl.” Tyrion and Jaime share a gaze, but Cersei remains as composed as ever.

 

 **_She thinks she has nothing to fear from father, but she will soon learn she is wrong._ **Jaime takes up his seat once more, looking more wounded now than he did when he had first arrived. He still has his arm in that silly sling. He was lucky to even have a hand. Tyrion had been told that the maester Qyburn had wanted to cut the rancid thing off.

 

Tyrion turns his attention to Cersei when she starts to speak; everyone does. “Father, I don’t see what we could stand to gain from a traitor’s daughter. Can we not just send her off to her mother with that lumbering oaf and be done with it?”

 

Tyrion begins to wonder if somewhere in Cersei’s black heart, she cared for the girl. Or mayhaps she simply appreciated Catelyn’s love for her daughter, as any mother would. Tyrion shakes his head of these idle fantasies about his sister’s intentions. It would serve him better to assume Cersei had merely grown bored of abusing the poor girl, though her son certainly had not.

 

“We have the whole of the North to gain from that girl. With her brother and her mother turned traitor and the rest of her house dead, the title of warden will be passed onto her and her husband, and, eventually, her heirs.” Tywin stops to let the implications of his words sink in for a moment before continuing. “House Lannister and House Stark shall become one. It is decided.”

 

Cersei wears a mask of consternation. Tyrion knows she must still harbor feelings for Jaime and father had just devised a scheme to rip her beloved twin away from her. She must be hurting. Tyrion hopes she is.

 

Tywin looks to Jaime. “You will be released from your vows by your king and wed Sansa Stark a fortnight after. Then you will take your rightful place as Lord of Casterly Rock and later, after this war is won, as Lord of Winterfell.”

 

Tywin then levels his gaze at Cersei. “And _you._ You will wed Willas Tyrell and become Lady of Highgarden.” He looks between both of them. “Is that understood?”

 

Cersei is the first protest. “I cannot marry the tardy-gaited cripple. I will not. The king needs me, here!”

 

“The king needs to secure his reign. _That_ is what the king needs.”

 

Cersei’s face twists with anger and even a tinge of fear. “You will not force me into another marriage. I refuse to be sold as chattel to pay off more of your debts.”

 

Tywin stands up and takes order of his small family court at this. “You _can_ and you _will._ You are _my_ daughter and you will do as I say. You will wed Willas of Highgarden and put an end to these vile rumors about you. This is not a debate.”

 

“Father, my vows are sacred. I will not break them for yet another one of your plots. If you want the Stark girl, marry her yourself.” Jaime stares with a steely gaze, the mettle of his character ready to sing under the might of their father’s hammer.

 

He almost cracks, though, when his father answers with a terse, “Fine.” It is Tywin’s continuation that proves even more alarming. “If you will not do it, then your brother will.”

 

“Father!” Tyrion all but shouts.

 

Tywin almost smiles. “You performed gallantly at Black Water. Sansa Stark shall be your reward.”

 

“With all this family has put her through you would be so cruel as to marry her to the imp?!” Tyrion turns his pleading gaze to Jaime, begging his older brother to relent.

 

Jaime takes his leave of the room.

 

**Jaime**

 

“If you have any reverence for me at all, you will do this.”

 

Jaime cannot look at his brother. “I do not want for a wife. I do not want for Casterly Rock. It is you who shall be father’s heir. You’d do better to thank me and than to badger me.”

 

Tyrion takes hold of his empty sleeve to stop him. The half-man is serious enough for both of them. “You know father will never allow me to inherit. Our lord father and our glorious sister only wish to humiliate the Stark girl even further. The girl you swore to protect.”

 

“With Catelyn Stark’s blade pointed at my heart.”

 

“A vow is a vow.”

 

“And what is the Kingsguard, my dear brother?”

 

Tyrion darkens his mismatched eyes with a furrowed brow. “A farce for the false king.”

 

Jaime is too pierced to move as he watches his brother walk away.

 

He finds his peace in the dungeon. It’s almost too easy to slip a guard gold and enter at one’s leisure. Jaime finds his spot at the very end, kneeling in the filth and the straw.

 

He tosses a bit of bread through the openings in the cross-hatched bars. “Here,” he says. “You must keep your strength up in a place like this.”

 

She slowly uncurls, moving away from her favored corner of the cell. “Have you released Sansa yet?”

 

“She sleeps on silks and feather-pillows every night and yet you ask of her release instead of your own. You, my lady, are a better knight than I’ll ever be.”

 

“I didn’t need you to tell me that.” She crawls toward the bars, bracing herself against them. “When will you make good on your promise and return her to Lady Catelyn.”

 

“If it were my decision, both of you would be halfway to their encampment by now.”

 

She tears off a piece of bread into her mouth. “I see, then you are a liar.”

 

“My father wishes to see me wed to her, and if not me, then he will have it be my brother.”

 

“You made a vow.”

 

“So I’ve been told.” Jaime rolls his eyes.

 

“What are you going to do?” She doesn’t seem especially concerned with his answer. Talk of honor and duty is likely idle conversation for her, or so he likes to think.

 

“Whatever I can. At least you’ll be able to sleep on silks and feather-pillows as well by tomorrow evening. You and Sansa Stark, the most well cared for prisoners in King’s Landing.”

 

And with that, he’s off.  

 

Jaime Lannister has always tread carefully when in the presence of his father. He makes a deliberate motion of closing the door behind him as he enters the solar, almost if hoping to keep the words that pass between them entirely contained in this room.

 

Tywin doesn’t look up from his scribblings at his desk. “So you’ve come.” It’s an irksome greeting that hangs heavy on Jaime.

 

“I will marry Sansa Stark and become Lord of Casterly Rock if that is what you will, father.” Tywin stops his writing. “Only on the condition that Cersei is released from her betrothal, though.” Tywin begins to speak, but Jaime cuts him off. “And you must release Brienne of Tarth into my service. She will serve as one of my and Lady Stark’s personal guards.”

 

Tywin remains still but for the thrumming of his fingertips. Jaime wishes more so than ever to be able to peek into that peerless mind of his father’s.

 

“Fine.”

 

He waits for his father to continue but is met with a final silence.

 

* * *

 

**Cersei**

 

Cersei sipped her wine and watched as Sansa fidgeted under the uneasy silence. The girl wasn’t nearly as clever as she thought herself to be. Cersei knew this now as she observed her. Cersei saw that she was just a silly little girl with eyes like silence.

 

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I was told you wished to speak to me. Is there a reason you called me here, Your Grace?” Her voice wasn’t wet with fear as it once would have been. She sounded more annoyed than anything or at least resolved to be unruly.

 

“Sansa darling, remind me again how long ago was it that you came here. To King’s Landing, I mean.” She takes another swirling sip of her wine.

 

“Two years, Your Grace.”

 

“You were so young then, weren’t you. And innocent too.” Cersei giggles without the slightest amusement. “Now you’re quite grown, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

Cersei remembered those days ever so clearly. Sansa’s simpering face and gentle demeanor. She was just as a lady should be. Just as Cersei had once been. **_Wet with love,_ ** she had once said. And it had been true.

 

There was a time when she sang like a songbird for the idea of love, however silly it may be. Cersei had seen a sliver of herself in the girl’s cracked visage; quite a loathsome thing to behold.

 

A burst of laughter bubbles forth from Cersei’s lips, jolting Sansa. It’s a shocking thing to hear after having sat in relative silence for the better part of an hour. Cersei can tell that her behavior is no doubt unnerving for the poor girl.

 

“Gods, I had almost forgotten why it was I asked to sup with you, Sansa, sweetling.” She waits a moment to watch Sansa ease into an uneasy laugh as well. “I wished to inform you myself. My father has taken it upon himself to arrange a match for you, my little dove.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Cersei keeps her eyes trained on the girl’s face. “Yes, my love, my father wishes to see you wed my brother, Jaime.” She scours Sansa’s face for any hint of a reaction.

 

The young girl does not react unduly. Her eyes rove and she flusters but maintains her mask better than most would in her situation.

 

“I am pleased that your family still wishes to associate with me though I am the disgraced daughter of a traitor.”

 

Cersei leans forward, taking one of Sansa’s hands in her own. “You are to be a Lannister and bear little lords and ladies of golden hair yet. Does that please you, little dove?”

 

She can see the strings pulling tight in Sansa’s throat. The little dove swallows, as if gulping down a bitter tonic. **_Nothing more bitter than the truth, child_ **. Cersei signals for her cup to be filled again.

 

“Yes, Your Grace, very much so.” Cersei waves her hand to indicate that Sansa’s cup should be filled as well. Sansa looks from the handmaid to the rich wine and arrests the cup with both hands. “Though it pains me to be separated from my one true love, the king, I will be loyal to your house as well as your brother. Just as you have been, Your Grace.” Sansa then takes a hefty drink of her southern wine.

 

Cersei sighs, rolling her eyes about the room in a put-upon fashion. “It would best suit you to teach yourself a new tune. Pretty little songbirds should sing for their husbands, not their kings. Once you are married, it will be your husband that will hold dominion over your life.”

 

Sansa peers up from her fine wine with full eyes, but it was not tears that were washing over that Tully blue. Cersei smiles and parts her lips to speak. “Soon you will be quite far away from here, whisked off to Casterly Rock to become its Lady. Would that suit you, my dear?”

 

Cersei can see the young girl’s eyes glaze over with understanding, blinking once or twice to confirm.

 

“Yes, Your Grace, that would suit me very well.”

 

**Sansa**

 

“And so what did the Queen say? Pray, what did she tell you?” Margaery Tyrell’s voice wafts through the air as sweetly as the perfume in her hair and on her samite dress.

 

Sansa had been working over the words all night in her head and still, they did not come easy to her lips. “She said I am to marry her brother, Ser Jaime. It is the Hand’s will that it be done.”

 

Margaery’s face shines with tempered confusion, her puzzled smile giving her away. “But… Well, Ser Jaime is a Kingsguard, is he not? Lord Commander, I believe.”

 

Sansa is surprised that this is her first question. “She said that the king is to release him from his vows so he may be instated as Lord Tywin’s heir once more. And a fortnight thereafter, we are to wed in the Sept of Baelor and leave for the Westerlands soon after.”

 

Margaery takes both Sansa’s hands in her own, squeezing them as if to lift the cold. “I know this is not the course you would have chosen yourself, but it is a blessing all the same. As a Lannister, you shall be exempt from the king’s punishments.” Sansa notices a twinkle in Margaery’s beautiful eyes. “This is _not_ the worst match you could have made. And Ser Jaime is certainly not the worst looking Lannister.”

 

 **_But he is still a Lannister._ **Sansa smiles despite herself, though, giggling more at Margaery’s countenance than her words, though she did appreciate both.

 

“Pardons, you must think me callow for speaking of my own troubles without giving a thought to yours. Forgive me.”

 

Margaery stands, catching sunlight in her hair like a true summer maiden. Jovial, she laughs, “You are forgiven, my lady. Now let us take a turn about the gardens and speak of less lofty things than marriage.”

 

Sansa stands as well, curtsying as she does so. “Many thanks, my lady. And it would be an honor,” she says, hooking her arm around Margaery’s.

 

**Jaime**

 

The release ceremony is a rather dull affair. Brienne stands among the crowd, watching with that same constipated look of hers. She had attended the court at Jaime’s behest, having been released from her bonds early this morning. She was less than pleased with the proceedings.

 

At the very least it was short. Jaime was glad for that. The king had grown bored of it all before it had even started, and so he made quick work of releasing his uncle from his vows.

 

After the ceremony finished, Joff decided to retire from court for today, allowing the small council to settle the rest of the matters. The boy caught Jaime and Tyrion just as they were exiting the hall.

 

“So you are to marry my former betrothed, Uncle?” Joff says, though Jaime cannot tell whether he’s more curious or more offended by the idea.

 

“So it would seem, my king.”

 

Joffrey gives a half laugh before turning his attention to Tyrion. “Grandfather should see fit to provide you with a wife soon enough. Mayhaps we should begin the search for a lady of similar stature now. How it would please me to have a whole brood of imps running about the Red Keep.”

 

Tyrion bows his head. “And how it would please me to have a whole brood of half-wits running about the Red Keep when you finally decide to sire some bastards of your own, Your Grace.”

 

Jaime smiles downward at his own feet as Joff scrunches his face and points an accusing finger at Tyrion. He’s about to speak when Jaime interrupts him. “Lady Sansa and I’s wedding will be within the fortnight, Your Grace. We’d be honored to have you in attendance.” In truth, Jaime had not spoken a word to the Stark girl—or even seen her for that matter—since the news had broken.

 

Joff seemed ill at the fact his chance to chastize Tyrion had been stolen, but he lets his ire die down enough to respond to his other uncle. “Mother said it would be rude not to attend. The bedding ceremony should make things interesting enough, though.”

 

“As you say, Your Grace.” Jaime can feel Tyrion’s eyes boring into him once again as Joffrey takes his leave. It is only once they are down a secluded corridor that he speaks, though.

 

“You intend on subjecting the poor girl to a bedding ceremony?! And for what? The favor of our gallant king? You have slain better kings than him.”

 

“You are lucky to be only halved in stature with the way you talk. That mouth will get you in trouble you won’t be able to jaw your way out of one day, brother.”

 

“Mayhaps you should like to reinstate the First Night as well then. Joffrey will be able to have her right in the throne room; he’s already stripped her there, why not rape her too?”

 

Jaime stops, astounded by his brother’s vitriol. “You make me out to be the monster when I have taken the duty for you. I don’t know what you should have me do.”

 

Tyrion balls his small fist and directs a blameful finger and glare Jaime’s way. “Observe a bedding ceremony and that girl will hate you until the end of her days.”

 

“What makes you think she doesn’t already? Our family has been her ruin. I do not see why she would bear any affection for me regardless of what I do.” Jaime exhales haughtily. He does not do well to take things to heart. Even he knows this. “It is a duty and tradition shall follow.”

 

“I never took you for the kind to walk with tradition.”

 

Jaime is worn down now. His brother was by far his superior in wit and he knew that Tyrion could continue this conversation to the end of days if he was so inclined. Jaime opens the door to his chambers with a low exhale.

 

“If it is her safety you are concerned with, you should know that I would never cause the girl any harm.”

 

Tyrion shuts the door behind them, still obviously incensed about the topic.

 

“No, but you’d shove her brother out a window, wouldn’t you?”

 

Jaime wrenches his eyes closed, tight as corn husks. A grimace escapes him in his frustration. He had not the temperament nor the constitution to carry on with his brother for much longer.

 

“What is it you would have me do, Tyrion? What would you have me say so that you may shut your mouth and leave me in peace?”

 

Tyrion composes himself to speak, leaning on the small table. “The girl is but thirteen and has been subjected to numerous humiliations at the hands of your nephew. Show her some courtesy and kindness and you might be surprised at what you receive in return.”

 

Jaime holds in place, letting Tyrion’s words drift over him in a slow cascade. He supposed he had forgotten how young the girl was. He had not seen her in years. If he were quite honest with himself, he imagined her as but a younger, prettier Catelyn. Though he never imagined her _that_ young, though he had heard of men having younger.

 

Jaime ambles over to the table and pours himself a generous cup of wine. “You should have agreed to marry her yourself, seeing as you have such feelings on the matter.” Even to himself, he sounded defeated as he downed his fill. “But I’ll heed your advice if it’ll shut you up.”

 

He watches as Tyrion straightens himself, looking almost surprised to have been able to force Jaime into submission so easily. Cersei was right. Jaime always had pitied their littlest brother, though Jaime didn’t know what good his pity could do either of them now.

 

“Thank you,” Tyrion answers curtly and turns, quitting his brother’s company with due haste. Jaime continues to drink as he watches his brother waddle away.

 

**Sansa**

 

Sansa and Margaery had not left the gardens since this morning. They ate and walked and talked all at their leisure. For all her heartache, Sansa felt warm under the soft light of the sun.

 

She and Margaery were speaking blithely of their projected futures when the woman came. She stood tall with shorn hair and a plain face. Still, she could not be any older than 20.

 

Looking from Sansa to Margaery she says, “Lady Sansa, Your Grace,” and bows each time. Sansa had never witnessed a woman bow before. She had never even imagined it. She looks to observe Margaery’s reaction but finds Margaery to be oddly serene.

 

Margaery stands, winsome smile tacked to her features. “It is good to see you, Lady Brienne. I am pleased to see you are well.”

 

“And I, you, Your Grace.” Brienne then turns her attention to Sansa and she feels wholly unworthy. “Lady Sansa, I am a sworn sword of your mother’s, Lady Catelyn Stark. I have pledged to serve you in all matters, my lady.” And then the great woman comes to kneel before her.

 

Again, Sansa looks to Margaery, eyes wide in muddled awe. Margaery nods as if giving her blessing.

 

Sansa brings her eyes back to Brienne. Even now, still kneeling, she appears great in stature and build. Perhaps as great as the Hound.

 

“I thank you, Lady Brienne. Your presence will bring me great peace in the times to come.” Questions suddenly raised to her lips. Questions of her mother and her brother, as well as their campaign. Questions that could prove to raise welts on her skin if the wrong ears heard them. Sansa’s eyes once again dart to Margaery’s. “I hope I am not too forward in asking, but it would bring me great pleasure to sup with you at Lady Olenna’s table tonight.”

 

Margaery takes note and steps forward, nodding. “It would be a delight for grandmother and I both. You are welcome at our table anytime, Lady Brienne.”

 

Brienne stands, back straight as a high-flying arrow. She bows once again. “Lady Sansa,” and then to Margaery, “Your Grace.” Her next words appear to stick more determinedly to her throat. “Though I am flattered at the offer, I cannot accept on the grounds of my previous engagements. I am to sup with Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion tonight. I would be honored to sit at your table any other time, my lady.”

 

Sansa’s brows knit into a vexed stare. Sansa means to ask Brienne of Tarth more questions, but she makes to leave as suddenly as she had arrived. Brienne of Tarth, sworn sword of her mother now takes dinner with the Lannisters. A tangled line of loyalties indeed.

 

She is given little time to ponder, however, as a handmaiden soon approaches to take Brienne’s place.

 

“Her Grace wishes to sup with you, Lady Sansa.” The handmaiden carries a note in her hand but does not show it to Sansa.

 

A look of solemn passes between Margaery and Sansa before Sansa is whisked off yet again to the Queen’s quarters.

 

**Cersei**

 

Wine always loosened her lips, especially in the company of the Stark girl. Something about Sansa made her addled mind want to prattle on about stories from her girlhood. Sansa awoke the cloying girl in her, the girl Cersei had once been and would never be again. So young and sickeningly naive.

 

Cersei would keep her head tonight, though she no longer knew if that would keep her wits about her or not. He wits were scattered to the winds, just as the agency she had once had as Queen Mother was.

 

She spoke directly and promptly when Sansa entered the solar, ushered in by one of her handmaidens. Cersei dismissed the serving girl with a hand, instantly starting in on Sansa.

 

She circled the small table closest to the terrace, beckoning Sansa to her. “Come, sit.”

 

Sansa did as she was bid. Always so obedient. Still, there glowed some smothered spark beneath her layers. The spark and glint of Northern fire furled deep in her chest, far away from where Joffrey’s prying fingers could reach.

 

“You wished to sup with me, Your Grace?”

 

“Yes, there is still much we must discuss.” Cersei remains standing, fingers tangling around the chiselings in her chair.

 

Cersei could still recall with startling clarity the time in which Sansa, drowned in smoke and tears, had been shown into her solar. The silly little thing had said the blood had frightened her. Frightened her enough to attempt to burn her bed and its coverings. Yes, she had been frightened, but it was not of blood. She suspected the Stark girl had seen enough of that to last her to the end of her days.

 

And now she was to be married. A debt was to be paid for her family’s treachery and she was to be the price. Cersei might have almost suffered to pity the girl if her head was not so full of fantasies. Gallant knights to sweep her off to Highgarden. No, there were to be no gallant knights in her story.

 

Only Ser Jaime.

 

The man that had crippled her brother and assisted in her father’s downfall. The man that loved no one and nothing but his own sister and the thrill of battle.

 

Cersei might split her head with laughter if she was not so miserly.

 

“I have something for you, child,” she says, resting her hand into her pocket to retrieve the small vial. She holds it for Sansa to observe before setting it on the table.

 

Sansa cocks her brow. “Milk of the poppy?”

 

“No, something much better and yet much worse, little dove. Your mother may have told you of your moonblood, but did she ever take care to tell you of what comes after?” She continues before Sansa even has the time to acknowledge the question. “Raised in the North with your brothers in Winterfell, you must have seen the nature of things. The bitch and the dog. The broodmare and the stallion. The servant girl and boy pressed so snuggly together as the wails of winter beat against the castle walls. The ugly reality of it all. The breeding is little competition to the birthing, though. My mother was torn in two on the birthing bed. She bled pale, murdered by her own babe. But even so, I know she would have loved him. A mother has no choice on that front.

 

“You may never love my brother, but you will love his children and they will want for nothing. ‘Worse the wailing, better the babe,’ I’ve heard the midwives say. Did your mother ever tell you of labor pains? No matter the tragedy you’ve yet experienced, I assure you that birthing your firstborn will be the most exquisite agony anyone has ever set upon you. And if what the midwives say holds true, I know you shall be in a great deal of pain on your childbed. Jaime has greatness in him. I know he does. And he will pass that greatness down to his children, which may very well rip you apart, my little dove.”

 

Cersei takes care to watch Sansa, the Tully blue of her eyes winding down to her lap in somber regard for her fate. A girl came of age when she received her first moonblood, but that did not mean her body would not be torn asunder by her babes.

 

She pushes the little blue vial closer to Sansa, attracting the attention of the girl’s eyes once more.

 

“Milk of the poppy will not save you from bleeding out on the birthing bed, but this will. It will save you a great deal of blood and pain.” Sansa extends a hesitant hand. The girl is trying so hard to still her trembling fingers. Cersei takes the tonic in hand for her, pressing it into Sansa’s palm before curling the girl’s fingers around it herself.

 

“This will prove to be your most indispensable wedding gift. One day you will come upon it and remember that no one but I allowed you some semblance of choice.”

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

Cersei knows the words are hollow. **_She doesn’t understand. How could she? But soon she will. When the fear of pain strikes her more thoroughly than it ever has. Then, she will be thankful._ **

 

“Remember, little dove, love is poison. A sweet poison, but a poison all the same.” Cersei leans closer, eyes flitting down to Sansa’s white-knuckled fist. “This poison may be bitter, but it will deliver you from the pain all the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked the chapter! I'd love to hear any criticisms or critiques you might have since I'm always trying to improve. I did my best to capture the spirit of the book. Also I just gotta say I love Jaime as an asshole. He's a loser and people should know it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. The Ashes of Aerys

**The Ashes of Aerys**

 

**Jaime**

 

Brienne’s steel toe at his ribs jolts him awake. **_I’ll slit the dumb cow’s throat next I catch her sleeping._ **

 

Righting himself, he massages his wrists where the manacles have rubbed him raw. Shafts of sunlight peek through the dusty clouds.

 

“I smell rain in the air,” Ser Cleos says, hunched over his breakfast like a pecking hen.

 

“Let’s hope you smell hail before long, coz.” Jaime shakes the hair out of his eyes and spits some of the bad taste from his mouth. “I would rather like having my skull split.” **_Then I could be rid of you both and break the wench’s vow all the same._ **

 

“We make for Maidenpool before the sun settles in the sky,” the wench says to no one in particular. Jaime turns his head upward.

 

“I have heard Jonquil’s Pool is choked with the dead now,” Ser Cleos replies, still pecking at his breakfast.

 

Jaime brandishes a smile. “ _Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool…”_

 

“You will quiet yourself, Kingslayer.” She seemed almost offended by his singing.

 

“I’ve never claimed to carry a tune, but I’m fairly certain ‘Six Maids in a Pool’ requires no such skill.” He brings his eyes to her. “You’ve heard it, I’m sure. Jonquil and her sisters; shy little maids. Rather like you. Prettier, though, I’ll assume.”

 

The big wench begins plodding her heavy feet over. Jaime eyes her. **_Aye, and her sidearm too._ **

 

Ser Cleos intercedes before she reaches him. “Please, let us keep the peace.” Cleos is crouched so low he almost looks to be groveling. Fitting for the vermin he is.

 

Jaime could scarcely remember when he had last known “peace.” He had known quiet for more than a year. He had his fill of quiet. Peace was quite another thing altogether and he knew it no better than when he was between Cersei’s legs.

 

He laughs, remembering how had once told her that he felt alive only when he was in either battle or bed. He had felt neither for some time. Nothing to send his blood singing like smithed steel. He had gone to rot in that dungeon, buried low as shit.

 

Jaime doesn’t breakfast before they ride. He hasn’t the constitution for it. His head was crawling with lice and his stomach with worms. His blood felt like sludge encasing rattled bones. Cersei wouldn’t like him this way; he didn’t look as much like her in this condition. **_I’d closer resemble a corpse than her._ **

 

He wondered what she was doing. Probably still sleeping on her feather-pillows and in her fine silk nightdress. What he would give to share her bed again. There was nothing he would not do to return to her. Even in this state, even as he was now.

 

He dips in the sway of his gelding’s back, eyes cutting through the ugly wench. She always rode ahead, charting their path through fields and the brush. Daylight did her no favors as she hunched over his saddle. He wondered if anyone had ever taught her how to ride properly.

 

They reached Maidenpool by midday. The sun cooked overhead, heating the swaths of bloated dead in the pool from which the town took its name. Jaime sniggered at the sight, beginning a quiet reprisal of the town’s famous song.

 

After getting only a few lines through, he interrupts himself to say, “Not long ago I had the pleasure of having a pretty little maid sing this song to me. She wasn’t quite so good as me, I’ll warrant, but she was—”

 

“ _Quiet,”_ snaps Brienne.

 

Ser Cleos quickly cuts in as well. “ _Please cousin,_ I do beg you not to be so conspicuous. Lord Mooton’s flag waves above the castle. You must be a bit more discerning.”

 

Jaime looks at him, his own distaste for the weasel of a man spilling from his eyes. “You really are quite a pet, coz.” Ser Cleos was more an ewe than a Lannister.

 

Despite the warnings, they make it through Maidenpool fair enough. It is once they are outside the gates that the troubles set upon them.

 

Maidenpool was scarcely put behind them when a plague of arrows are loosed on them. Ser Cleos’ mount is spooked into a gallop after receiving a quarrel in one of its hind legs. Ser Cleos cannot maintain himself upon his mount, though, and is thrown but his foot catches in the right stirrup. His palfrey drags him along behind.

 

Jaime spares little thought for Ser Cleos, however, as a quarrel has lodged itself in his own right hand. He’s pinned to his saddle for a moment before wresting his hand back. His hand throbs from the agitation, but Jaime keeps his head clear of it. His ancient gelding tries to pitch beneath him, but Jaime heaves forward to counter it.

 

Looking about, he soon spots Brienne. Both her left arm and leg have taken arrowheads, but she doesn’t seem to notice. No, the stupid cow wouldn’t notice.

 

Jaime also sees the rampart that conceals their assailants. He urges his mount to gallop and rushes them. They scatter like insects under the light. Archers fear direct attacks. He’s foolhardy enough to know that.

 

Brienne pulls up next. “Who were they? Did they know who you are?”

 

Jaime shakes his head. “Brigands, I suspect. Nothing to fret over my fair maid.” He kicks his gelding into an easy pace. “Let us find Ser Cleos, if he yet lives.”

 

They come upon Ser Cleos a little ways down the road. His horse, as well as the top of his skull, are both missing from him.

 

Jaime stares down at his kin, his left hand already working at the quarrel bolted through his right. He removes it with a deep grunt. He tosses the bloody thing aside as he dismounts from his horse.

 

Bending over his cousin, Jaime begins to trifle with his clothes.

 

“He’s yet warm!” The wench appears scandalized by Jaime.

 

“He’ll cool quite soon enough. I’ll dress out of these rags with his clothes. I want his horse, as well, if we ever find the damned thing.”

 

“You’d treat your own kin so callously?” She says it more to question his honor than actions.

 

Jaime starts with Cleos’ swordbelt. He is tired of her questions. “I have more kin than you or even I know of. I am well provisioned on that front.”

 

“Leave the sword be, Kingslayer.”

 

“I’ll not keep watch unarmed.”

 

“You shall not have his sword. Stop with it.”

 

Jaime feels his entire body tense, readying itself for movement. His sword hand was wounded and his wrists chained, but the wench of big and slow and stupid anyway. She would not require his full strength.

 

His legs trembled with latent flight as his fingers traced the hilt once, twice, and then three times. He could hear the wench speaking, commanding him, but the words washed over him like a foreign song. He sucked a breath in and pulled.

 

Jerking upwards, he pivots to cut her down from her horse, but she’s too quick for him. He supposed she would be. She was stubborn in every endeavor she undertook and she would be stubborn in death too.

 

She dismounts her steed herself. She would want a clean battle, wouldn’t she? **_I would want one too, if I was her._ **

 

“Lay down your sword, Kingslayer.”

 

“I’ll lay it in your neck, wench.”

 

He moves to strike and she blocks him again. She backs and he presses forward. The metal kisses and skids, letting off sparks. His chains keep both his hands wrapped firmly around the grip, though he doubts he could wield the sword in his right in any case. The hand was still weak from its wound.

 

The hacking and slashing continue. A truly artless form of battle, but the end he writes for Brienne of Tarth needn’t be in prose. His blood zinged with life, giving his pale cheeks a flush and hapless breath in his body. He heaved, pressing his attacks. The wench was panting like a dog as well.

 

She backed and he followed and so went the game until he pinned her… until she escaped. Like an endless dance. **_Like fucking,_ **he thought tiredly.

 

The fought to the river bed, backing and parting and stepping as blindly as children. Jaime feels his arms throb with tension, using muscles his body’s been unaware of for the last year. Strength and skill go to rot in a dungeon… much like everything else. The thought is bitter on his tongue.

 

Brienne is stronger than him. She leads the charge as he tires down.

 

“ _Yield,”_ she commands, backing him into the brook.

 

She says it again, and again again as the blades sing their song. Soon the water soaks his feet and ankles. He steps back again, but his foot catches on a rock and he’s sent falling. A rock edged by the current digs into his right palm and he is sick with pain.

 

Before he knows it, she’s on top of him. The sword is gone… gone from him as much as the one he mislaid in the Whispering Wood so long ago. She presses him into the water, demanding he “Yield Yield Yield.”

 

He tries for the dagger she carries, the one he’s always eyed, but she takes his hand by the wrist and forces it above his head. Her one hand easily fits round both his wrists. But she’s low, too low, at least her head is anyway.

 

He butts his forehead into the bridge of her nose. She’s stunned for a moment, blood leaking from her nostrils like water from a spring. It flows over him and the water. He can taste it in his mouth, thick as iron.

 

She forces him under, forces him back. Back back back, the back of his head into a deep settled rock.

 

...

 

His eyes open to the pitch black of the night. The moon’s ivory like shines down with all the splendor of a lover’s long. He feels the blood crusted at the back of his head, his hair clumped under the sticky reddish flakes. A dull ache pervades through his body.

 

He moves, twisting an arm and kicking a leg, but finds himself chained. Chained to a tree. For quite a few seconds he had forgotten about the wench and his captivity. He is reminded now.

 

A low chortle bubbles in his throat, as thick and coarse as a crow’s caw.

 

The edge of a knife bent at his neck quiets him soon enough. The smell of rot and shit floods the air. It’s not Brienne that’s bending behind the tree.

 

“Best shut your mouth ‘fore I cut ya from ear to ear.”

 

“And kill a chained man? There’s no sport in that.” The blade pricks him under his chin for that. “Tell me, was it you who set upon us outside of Maidenpool or was it yet another band of murderous reprobates? They seem to proliferate around here.”

 

Jaime’s attention is then snatched by the wench’s unmistakable screams. She sounded more an animal than a woman. Perhaps a cross between a donkey’s braying and a dog’s vicious snarl.

 

Torchlight blinds him, but he needn’t see to know. They have her. I could have taken four or twenty-four men to take her, but they have her. She is being of no help to their endeavor, though. Kicking and screaming and snapping like a shadowcat.

 

“Don’tcha know us? Well, we certainly know you, _Kingslayer.”_ The words slide off the wretch’s tongue like squirming maggots. “The Brave Companions, at your service.”

 

**_The Bloody Mummers, more like._ **

 

A band of killers and rapers so absurd that they looked like a gang of mummers, but insisted on being called _The Brave Companions._ Jaime could almost laugh. He almost did.

 

“I suspect you know my father as well, then, and Lannister coin even better. Strike these chains and you shall have a fitting reward.” His eyes stray toward Brienne. “And for the wench, she’s a highborn lady, though she may not look it. She’ll fetch a good ransom.”

 

Laughter lights the night air thick as flies.

 

Jaime stares blankly. “Have I said something amusing?”

 

Another voice rings out. “We’ve traded blood and gold for Tully blue and Stark grey.”

 

Jaime snorts. “Tell me what they call you, ser, so I may pronounce you craven by name.”

 

Jaime is answered by a knife in his hand. His teeth turn to a steel trap in his mouth, clenched so hard he felt they might crack. His captor twists the blade in his hand, laughing so close to Jaime’s face that Jaime could smell his stinking corpse breath.

 

“ _Urswyck_ ,” he says, spitting into Jaime’s face, “and not so craven as you.”

 

…

 

It’s daylight before he has a clear thought again. His hand hums with agony yet unknown to him. Still, the more agonizing thought is of amputation. He’s seen wounds fester with pus and black rot. Smelled it like the perfume of death itself.

 

This hand, he would sooner die than lose it. But even now, still attached at his wrist, it is useless. He can hardly flex his fingers without thick tendrils of pain ripping through him.

 

His head faired no better. He would often fade between the waking world and dead sleep as easily as he drew breath. He was almost better when sleeping, though, as looking down from horseback gave him such intense dizziness that he almost slipped from the saddle.

 

He could not say whether it was from infectious fever or the split in his skull, but he feared more the fever. Any maester, or even any butcher for that matter, would want to take his hand if it was fever. They could take his head, but do not take his hand while he yet lived.

 

Eventually, he summoned enough strength to call out. “Urwic! Come… now… please…” He struggled to make the words, slurring them as if drunk. Truly, though, he was doing his utmost to avoid wretching.

 

“What would you be wanting, Kingslayer?” Urswyck says, falling in beside.

 

Jaime’s eyes widen. “Gold? You… must like gold?” Jaime feels Brienne kicking at him from behind, bidding him to be quiet. It’s almost enough to make him ill.

 

“It’s a useful thing to have, I’ll admit. What of it?”

 

“You’ll have all the gold… in the Rock. All I ask, is… to take us to King’s Landing. The wench too. Her father’s sapphires are… worth more than her cunt… I assure.” Jaime smiles but it is offset by the sick look of his face.

 

Urswyck looks to consider for a moment. “You’d have me for a turncloak? And Gold and Sapphires you say?”

 

Jaime nods weakly. “Yes… on both accounts. The wench is of the Sipphire Isle.”

 

Urswyck laughs. “In any sight, King’s Landing is a far distance from Harrenhal. And I doubt Lord Tywin would take kindly to us having sold Harrenhal to the Boltons.”

 

“He would if you returned me… would a knighthood suit you? Ser Urswyck, mayhaps?”

 

Urswyck busts with laughter again. “You must think me a fool. The word of an oathbreaker carries little weight for me.” And as quickly as Jaime can blink his eyes, the man is gone.

 

 **_It always comes to Aerys, doesn’t it._ ** The Mad King’s blood might well still wet his hands with how people talk. **_Aerys,_ ** he thought with disdain, **_I’ll taste his ashes until the day I taste death._ **

 

After, Brienne starts with her chattering. He wished she had crippled his hearing along with his head when she had struck him hard against that rock.

 

“Are you so ill to forget that Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle for its waters and not its mines?”

 

Their shared mount falters at a large tree root, jouncing them. It’s enough to cause the bile and dreck in his stomach to climb his throat. He spits his vomit over the side, dribbling out his mouth and over his chin.

 

“Speak louder. Perhaps Urswyck will hear you then.”

 

“Can you talk in anything but lies, Kingslayer?”

 

He wipes his mouth. “You’ll care for my lies soon enough when these men’s cocks thirst more for your cunt than for your petty ransom.”

 

…

 

The next two days pass like winding dreams for Jaime. Sick and soiled, he rides. On their second night of camping, Jaime knows that it is the fever that makes him so. His blighted hand is as sore and smarting as anything he’s ever felt. It throbs with a dull ache in time with his heartbeat but can also deliver him to fainting with so much as a pinprick.

 

He wakes for little once he sets to sleep. He disappears into the blackness. The place he would always go when the terrors of Aerys’ throne room became too much. He went away inside, so far away that the pain seemed a little thing. Brienne’s screams always drew him out, though.

 

He knew they would come for her eventually. It never took long for men like this lot to tire of this little game. Her ransom meant nothing in comparison to such immediate gratification. His weepy eyes opened slowly to see the worst of the bunch at her like vultures on carrion.

 

Their conversation sound drowned, but Jaime needn’t know the specifics. He knew what the three meant to do.

 

He righted himself against the tree, pain pulling in his arm like his own muscles. The movement made the blood in his ears pulse as well. The canals had felt full for days now. Blood even seeped out from time to time. Once dried, it itched rather terribly.

 

“Here’s a terrible little jape. Hoat the Goat shall chew your pox ridden cock off if you use it for her maidenhead. And would you know why?” He shouts, “SAPPHIRES,” sending his voice to carry across the camp and sending a disgruntled foot to his injured hand.

 

It knocks the air from his lungs and his soul from his body. He sleeps again.

 

Sleeping is what all he could do for the rest of the journey to Harrenhal. Vargo the Goat meets them at the gates. The Goat had a notion to tie both Jaime and Brienne to his saddle and string them along behind through town.

 

Roose Bolton was not amused by the display, though Jaime had never known him to be amused by anything. Roose cut the Goat’s ropes and brought both Jaime and the wench into his keep.

 

 **_At last the Lannister name would pay for something on this wretched excursion,_ **Jaime thought.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Sansa**

 

Hot tears rolled down her flushed cheeks like rain over rock. For weeks she had went without weeping. Now she whimpered impotently as she rubbed at her face with the underside of her hands.

 

She clutched the vial hard in her hand, almost hoping it would shatter into her palm. She thinks of launching the vial across the room, of seeing it smash against the wall. But she held to it, sniveling into her knees.

 

Her dreams of marriage had now transfigured into nightmares. There would be no dogs or sons named Eddard, Rickon, and Bran. There would be no Highgarden. No escape from the Lannisters.

 

But she did not weep for her lost love Willas, a man she had never known, nor did she weep for Highgarden. If there was a reason for her weeping, it was for her lost life. She had been in mourning almost every day since they cut off her father’s poor head. For father, for Bran and Rickon, and now, for herself.

 

She did not wish to marry. Not Ser Jaime, not Joffrey, not Willas Tyrell, and not even Ser Loras. Sansa wished only to be back home, at Winterfell. She wished to be with her mother and Robb and Arya. Even Jon, too.

 

Crawling to her bed, she digs her fingers into the sheets and buries her face in the spread. She didn’t want to marry anyone. She’d rather join the Silent Sisters, or even be a Septa. Anything to keep her from marrying.

 

For so long she had wanted for nothing but to be a woman, to have a household and title and family of her own. Now she wished to be nothing but a maid till the end of her days.

 

 **_They cannot make me do it,_ ** she thought. **_I will not marry. I’ll take the poison or throw myself from a window like Ashara Dayne._ **But as she buried her head deeper into her linens she realized it was all for naught.

 

She was alone here, wholly alone. Her mother and brothers might as well be across the Narrow Sea for all the help they could give her. And Arya was gone, not seen since the execution. She heard the court whispering when they thought she couldn’t hear or at least didn’t care if she did. Everyone said Arya was dead.

 

Sansa climbs onto her bed like an especially precocious child. All feet and hands and knees. If Lady were here, she would lay by her side and lick the salt off her face. But Lady was dead. Beheaded just like her father. Her pale hands twist in the fabric of her pillow.

 

They called her mother a traitor and her brother too. They’d probably call Arya a traitor too. Jon, at least, was safe. Tucked away on the Wall somewhere, doing whatever bastards do. **_No, I shouldn’t call him a bastard._ ** She shakes her head. **_Jon’s the last I’ll have if Joffrey gets his way._ **

 

She draws her legs in, holding them against herself. **_If only Jon had come with us instead of going off with Uncle Benjen. Maybe he could have made it so Lady lived._ ** She blinks her tears. **_Even if Arya still ran off, I wouldn’t be so alone if Jon were here._ **

 

She shakes her head. No, she didn’t have the right to cry out for Jon. She had been nothing but cruel to him. Jon wasn’t hers to have. If he was anyone’s to claim, it would be Arya.

 

Sansa closes her eyes, trying to will herself to sleep but her mind is now abuzz with memories. Memories she’d rather forget.

 

Her restless mind called back all the silly spats she had with Arya, all the spiteful braying and vicious insults. Thoughts of Jon haunted her as well. She had been so eager to curry favor with her mother then.

 

Catelyn had always regarded Jon with a certain, tangible contempt. It was no slim slight on her part. She made her disgust for Jon well-known and well observed, especially by Sansa.

 

It was wicked business to make a child feel so unloved and unwelcome. Sansa knew that now. She felt it in the black bruises of her skin.

 

But she was a child then, no more than eight. She was a child but she knew better. In the cherry pit of her heart she knew it was hateful, but the words tumbled out of her mouth all the same.

 

“You can’t sit at the table, _Jon Snow._ You’re not part of the family. You’re a _bastard_.”

 

Sansa can still feel the angry awe in her mother’s eyes when she had looked to her for her approval. That dismayed look doesn’t haunt her half as bad as the dark expression her father wore, though.

 

He stood from the table and took her by the arm. He meant to punish her and she almost soiled herself under the hard glare of his ire. All the words he said were lost in a cacophony of sound as her mother pleaded with him to pardon her. The table was sent in a spiraling uproar until Jon’s own voice cut through it like a whip.

 

“Father, please. She doesn’t know what she said. Don’t chastise her on my account…It’s Arya’s name day after all.”

 

Sansa received no beating that night, though now she wished she had. She wished she had been reprimanded for her actions. For calling Jon a bastard. She had always looked down on him. Him and Arya both. She supposed she was almost envious of their rapport.

 

But she only had to look at the life envy had bought her to regret every ill-meant word she had ever spoken. She had wanted to be a Queen and to bear lion cubs for children. Now she was to be the King’s aunt and a Lannister broodmare.

 

Her muffled sobs eventually turn to quiet cries and then to nothing as she fades off into sleep, hoping to dream of Winterfell.

 

**Brienne**

 

“So do you still intend on returning Lady Sansa to her mother?” Her eyes do not break from her fine dinner.

 

An uneasy silence drapes the air, but she remains unaffected. She is not shy in her sense of duty.

 

“Well,” Tyrion begins to sputter, “It’s not quite so easy as I would like it to be. Once Lady Sansa is safe of person and out of King’s Landing… Perhaps negotiations could resume then.”

 

Brienne meets Tyrion’s gaze. “You’ve already lost Arya Stark. I suppose it would be more agreeable to remove Lady Sansa from this snakepit before she is lost to us as well.”

 

Jaime’s regret is palpable. It does little to deter Brienne. **_Inviting me to sup was his mistake._ **

Tyrion chuckles nervously. He seems unused to such bluntness in this liar’s den. “Yes, well I must agree with you on that front.” He takes a drowning drink.

 

Brienne remains unrelenting. “And I assume that once Lady Sansa is positioned in Casterly Rock you’ll make the necessary arrangements to allow me to escort her back to Lady Catelyn?”

 

Tyrion’s mouth twists like a worm as if he’s tasting his words before he speaks them. Jaime speaks for him soon enough, though.

 

“You expect too much. You’d do better to take your disappointments and go on. He can’t very well kidnap his sister in law and abscond to the nearest enemy camp with her.”

 

She takes her gaze to Jaime, then. His appearance still strikes her. She still remembers seeing him in the bath. She had thought him half god half corpse as he stumbled into the tub beside her.

 

The fever had paled him then, infection taking root in his hand and blackening his blood. The Maester Qyburn had salvaged the hand for him, but it had taken great parts pain to do so. Brienne could still recall the screams.

 

“Whatever the case, you have my word, Lady Brienne, that no harm shall ever befall Sansa Stark again.”

 

Brienne is suddenly snapped back to the present. She blinks at Tyrion before the unfettered words flow once more. “Your word means little to me, but I’ll take it in any case.”

 

Brienne does not burden herself with much more conversation after this. She sups in the simplest of terms, enjoying the courses and not concerning herself with much anything else.

 

Otherwise, Tyrion quite likes to speak and Jaime quite likes to listen with an occasional word or phrase thrown in to make himself seem a little clever.

 

Her mind drifts from their discussions, recalling memories new and old. She tries to envision Sansa Stark. So young and fair of face. A maid of but three-and-ten. And she would be married off. A miserly fate, one Brienne is glad not to share.

 

She cannot begrudge Jaime for his part, though. He seemed as assigned to misery as Sansa Stark. The marriage was not the fruit of his plotting or planning. Lord Tywin Lannister, his father, held that honor.

 

Brienne passes the rest of the evening in her thoughts, speaking nothing but her goodbyes when the time comes. Jaime withdraws from Tyrion’s apartments along with her.

 

“You certainly made a show,” he says once the door is shut and they are in the hall. He cannot shunt his own amusement.

 

“I’ve made my intentions clear, at least. I am come to bring Lady Sansa home and that is what I shall do.”

 

“Your stubbornness would serve to make you a better mule than a lady.” The shadows dance across his face, carving sharp lines into his visage. He looks both young and older now. Mayhaps handsomer too.

 

“I am no lady.”

 

He chuckles and she feels her cheeks rise with heat.

 

“I know,” he says just as confidently as anything else. “You are no lady, but you are in my service all the same. I would say you are in my debt as well, but who knows what you might try to repay me with. You’d kill me as soon as kiss me.”

 

Brienne doesn’t regard his jape.

 

Jaime carries on after a pause. “Ser Loras, he came to see you while you were in the cells, didn’t he?”

 

“Yes, he did, ser. He told me he had come at your behest.”

 

He runs his fingers over his jaw. “His whinging had grown bothersome. I only directed him to you to keep him out of mine own sight.”

 

“I thank you anyway, ser.” Ser Loras had wanted her executed for Renly’s murder, and if not executed, sent down below to the black cells. Loras may not have said as much to her, but she had heard it all the same. The walls of the Red Keep do talk.

 

“At least he knows it wasn’t one of the maids from Renly’s Rainbow Guard that stole his beloved it.” He sighs, beginning to turn. “I trust you can see yourself off to your chambers well enough, sweet Brienne.”

 

She watched him as he went away from her, off in the opposite direction of his newly moved keep. Brienne knew he was not lost, though. He was off in the direction of the Queen Regent’s chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really was planning on having Sansa and Jaime actually talk for once in this chapter but like... I got sidetracked with Brienne and Jaime. Next Chapter should come out sooner and it's gonna be all about the wedding and all that good stuff.
> 
> Also we're probably gonna have a lot of different surprise ships popping up (looking at you tyrion).
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading! Comments, critiques, and criticisms always welcome! Love y'all!
> 
> (Little note, chapt 1 &2 have been edited for my own stupidity ٩(♡ε♡ )۶)
> 
> EDIT: meant for chapter three to come out earlier this week, but got caught up in other things. namely, drawing my versions of how book characters look. 
> 
> if you're curious about my art feel free to drop by my tumblr here
> 
> https://aishiterusan.tumblr.com/
> 
> also feel free to chat with me about fandom stuff or fanfic stuff! love y'all ;)


	3. Update!

                              

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry couldn't get chapter three out on time but that's b/c I've been more working on my art WIPs and stuff. 
> 
> Chapters should come out regularly on Saturdays, so check in for that (won't make any promises but chapter three should come out earlier)
> 
> Just felt like showing you guys what I've been working on instead of the chapters
> 
> basically my perceptions of what the book characters look like!
> 
> (In order: Brienne, Cersei, Joffrey, Robb, Jon, Jaime, and Catelyn & Sansa )
> 
> Thanks for all you're support mwah!!
> 
> ∩(︶▽︶)∩


	4. more update !

_ **Sansa's Wedding (First) Day** _

So here I am with yet another chapter missed... well at least you can see what I've been working on instead of the chapter. I've been playing a lot of A Plague Tale and Red Dead Online right now, too lol. maybe one day I'll stop drawing/gaming and actually write something.... 

 EDIT: Wedding day Sansa!!!

Also I intend to keep writing, it's just that it's hard to get into the right headspace to write what I'd like to. I want to keep up good quality and thank you for everyone's patience as of late!!!!!!! Luv you all and I'm sorry if this isn't what you'd like to see but I'm doing my best! 

 


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